‘Romy Fitzgerald always planned to go the conventional route: boyfriend, marriage, children. Motherhood via cupboard sex at a costume party with a stranger dressed as Darth Vader didn’t feature on her to-do list.’
Right, so as above, woman goes to a party where everyone is
wearing masks, has a masked fuck with some bloke and nine months later has a
kid whose father she doesn’t know the name or face of. You get the back story
and then get pulled back to the present day, where the kid has come out of her
cunt and she is being a single mum. People from her past come back and the
story focuses on her relationships with people that she used to know, as well
as her relationships with her family.
First point – it’s chick-lit, so as I say every fucking time
that I review one of these, if you don’t like chick-lit then don’t buy it, read
it, and then come moaning to me because you don’t fucking like it. It’s not
busting out of that genre to start a revolution, it is what it is.
Second point – if you do like chick-lit, then read it.
Clodagh has been compared to Sophie Kinsella and Marian Keyes and they’re
probably quite good. This was better and more engaging than some of the women’s
fiction I’ve read in the past. It’s got a nice range of characters and a few
plot lines (not just the ‘who’s the Daddy’) that keep you intrigued throughout
the whole book. And it’s a fucking long book, but it’s length isn’t
off-putting. It just gives you more to get stuck into.
I’ve yet to read any chick-lit that has surprised me at the
end. You guess what’s coming as you go along and this book didn’t change any of
that, but it doesn’t make it redundant. It’s nice and comforting. Like a lovely
jumper, or a shag with someone you've known since primary school.
Recommended as a holiday read or for a lazy Sunday.
I'd find it really fucking weird shagging someone I've known since primary school, to be honest.
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